


Voices

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [9]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Post-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, but only like right afterwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:17:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: He can almost feel the gas still running through him. He can feel it among the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins and whirling around in his head among his thoughts.





	Voices

It’s quiet in the room of Jeremiah’s underground maze. He’s sipping on an almost empty glass of whisky, leaning against his workbench. He’s alone. He has been so for a while. He sent Ecco out on an errand a little while ago to get some things. His fridge is looking a bit empty, as well as the bottle of whiskey on the table he’s currently staring at, and ever since the event with the gas Jerome made he’s felt... Odd. It feels unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He can almost feel the gas still running through him. He can feel it among the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins and whirling around in his head among his thoughts. It’s like it’s settling into his body.

Painkillers probably won’t do anything about it, nor getting drunk off whiskey, but it’s worth a shot. He just wants the feeling to go away. 

The feeling is still there as he finishes his glass. He’s not anywhere near tipsy and with nothing but the water in the sink left, he’s left with no other option than to just deal with this odd feeling. It leaves his palms sweaty and his breaths short. He sets his glass down and wipes his hands on his pant legs, an action that doesn’t do very much to his clammy hands. He breathes in deep, but neither the odd feeling nor the new anxious one are affected in any way. 

It’s too quiet in the room. Jeremiah doesn’t like it. There’s too much room for sounds. Bad sounds. He needs to occupy himself. Fill the room with some good sounds is what he’ll do, he concludes. Perhaps he’ll work. He likes the sound of pen against paper, papers being shuffled and his own concentrated thoughts as he works. 

He opens a drawer, looking for a pen. He can remember placing one around here somewhere. One drawer filled with drawings from when he was younger. The original drawing of this very maze he’s standing in is among them somewhere. He hasn’t looked at it in a while, having turned it into a much better, more detailed blueprint years ago. He lifts a few to check for any pen, spotting a few drawings as he does. Some of them are a bit stained and discoloured while others are drawn on pearly white, perfectly straight paper, depending on when he’d drawn them. The circus didn’t have a lot of nice paper to offer him. Sometimes he’d resorted to the plainest pages in newspapers or magazines. 

Speaking of newspapers. The next drawer is filled with them. Like the last one, no pen is to be seen, though he doesn’t shut the drawer and move on. Instead he takes a moment to look at the newspapers, or rather newspaper cutouts. He spots articles and some pictures, some dating several years back while some just days. They all have one thing in common.   
They all mention Jerome. Jerome killing their mother. Jerome getting sent to Arkham. Jerome getting out of Arkham. Jerome’s crimes. The list continues. Jeremiah wants to shut the drawer, but doesn’t, rather pulling out a picture of his brother from a few years ago and taking a look at it. It’s his mugshot. His first one, because there’s been a few. 

His face is normal here. No stitches. No staples. No scars. Though there’s a big menacing grin on his face. It doesn’t exactly do anything to help the anxious feeling still running through him along with the odd one from the gas. Jerome looks so alive. He doesn’t like it so he places it down and takes his eyes off of it.   
Eyes on the floor beside him where he sits on his knees, he tries remembering where he might have put that pen. He doesn’t normally lose pens. He only use them by his desks, mostly his workbench. He really hasn’t been himself since Jerome sprayed him with that gas of his. Hopefully that doesn’t last. Hopefully that gas disappears, this feeling of anxiousness and nervousness goes away and he goes back to normal. 

There’s movement in the corner of his eyes. There’s a sudden spike in his heart rate and once again his palms get ever so slightly clammy. Irrational, silly thoughts pop up in his head. Jeremiah pushes them away.   
He hadn’t just seen a Jerome blink, had he? No. He‘s being silly. That is a picture of him and pictures don’t move. Jeremiah knows that. Pictures never move, especially not the ones on physical papers. That was something out of a fantasy novel. "It’s just the gas," he tells himself in a quiet, almost incoherent voice. He takes a deep breath and glances at the picture in question. Like he suspects, it’s still. Not a muscle in Jerome’s face moves. "It’s either the gas or just nerves," he tells himself. "Your brain’s playing tricks on you." He tilts his head back and takes a second deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling just as slow as he inhaled. 

"Never imagined you to be one to talk to yourself."

Jeremiah chokes on the air as he hears the voice. The voice is clear and he recognises it immediately. That’s Jerome. That’s Jerome’s voice. But Jerome’s dead. He’s hearing things. It’s the gas. Jerome’s dead. Jerome’s not even here.   
Jeremiah’s hands are shaking as he rubs them down his thighs in an attempt to wipe off the sweat. His breaths are getting shorter and faster. His vision is blurry and he rapidly blinks. Any effort he makes to calm himself fails so he sticks to trying not to pass out instead. "Jerome’s dead," he whispers once he’s caught his breath. His words are weak and shaky. They don’t do much to reassure him. 

"They do say no one ever dies in Gotham, brother dear." Jeremiah’s vision is filled with little black spots. "You should know that." Jeremiah’s body feels weak as he pushes himself back and up on his feet. Blinking quickly and harshly he finds the room empty. Jerome’s nowhere to be seen, though his voice had been crystal clear like he’s standing right there with him. It’s all confusing and Jeremiah does his best to make sense of it all, reassure himself this is all in his head and rationalise, but it proves to be a difficult task. It’s difficult to breathe and his thoughts are a mess. 

"You’re dead," Jeremiah cries out the moment he once again manages to catch his breath. A cackle is all the response he gets. It’s loud and he covers his ears to block it out, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. The laughter is just as loud, like it’s coming from inside his head and no matter how hard he presses his hands against his ears, it doesn’t stop. 

He screams for it - for him - to stop. He scans the room, once again finding it empty. The voice comes from somewhere, yet there’s no one here. It sounds like it’s coming from his head, but that’s not physically possible. There’s no gas that can somehow project a voice in his own head, especially one made by Jerome. Jerome isn’t a scientist, nor are his psycho friends. Sure, making someone see their worst fear is one thing, but this isn’t possible. It sounds nothing like his own thoughts. He can hear this voice, physically hear it. 

Jeremiah spots the mugshot resting on top of all the other papers in the drawer. Much unlike last time, it moves. Jerome moves. Jerome’s unscarred face moves. The grin grows into a smile and Jerome’s eyes blink several times during the time Jeremiah looks at it. Jeremiah rips his glasses off his face and rubs his eyes. He looks again to see the now unmoving picture. The grin is back and the eyes are unblinking, like Jerome had never moved at all. 

He throws it into the bin, though not before ripping it to tiny little pieces. It’s quiet now. Finally his breathing calms down enough for him to breathe properly and he feels exhausted. He feels as if he’s just ran a marathon. He’s sweating and clammy all over. He removes his jacket and sits down in a chair to calm himself down. The rational, reassuring thoughts are finally let through. All of that was the gas, he thinks. He hallucinated and had some sort of a panic attack. Jerome is dead after all. Dead and gone. He might have resurrected from the dead once, but not this time. He’s dead. 

The odd feeling is seemingly gone. The gas is probably out of his system now. He had a little freak out, the gas reacting with his nerves or whatever it was it did and Jerome got to give him a little scare, but it’s over now.   
It takes a while for him to relax. He’s still a little on edge, a little unsure and not quite himself, but at least he can think properly. Several deep breaths, reassuring pep talks and rational explanations later and he’s pretty much back to normal.

"Oh Jeremiah, dear brother, we both know that’s not true."


End file.
